


Injury

by The_Cool_Aunt



Series: DISPATCH BOX [31]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anxiety, Arthur Conan Doyle Canon References, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Homosexuality, Humor, M/M, Servants, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:23:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Cool_Aunt/pseuds/The_Cool_Aunt
Summary: WANTED— Temporary MAID OF ALL WORK, for two gentlemen and housekeeper. Live out. No laundry. Good personal reference. Apply 221B, Baker Street, after twelve.Doctor Watson delves into the details of domestic life at 221B.





	Injury

“John, thank God you have returned! Your professional services are required immediately.” Sherlock’s voice rolled up the stairs and into the hall, where I had just dropped my walking stick into the stand.  
  
“Whatever is the matter?” I demanded, tossing my hat towards the rack and dashing down the narrow hallway.  
  
“We are in the kitchen,” he called out as I hastened down the stairs.  
  
The sight that greeted me as I crossed the threshold of the always-warm room caused me to take in a sudden, shocked breath. Mrs Hudson was seated at the worn work table—not at all an uncommon sight—but instead of being engaged in chopping or peeling something, she sat with her hands clenched into fists in her lap, and one of her legs was propped up on a second chair.  
  
Her long skirt, still covered by her immense, coarse apron, was gathered halfway up to her knee, exposing her bare ankle and foot—and the exposed skin was horribly reddened.  
  
“What happened?” I demanded, instantly kneeling to examine her.  
  
“A slight miscalculation…” she replied, laughing weakly. It was not until later that I realised she had used a favourite expression of Sherlock’s, which he used most often in reference to unplanned swims in the Thames or noxious fumes filling the house.  
  
The skin covering the top of her foot, up as far as her ankle, had apparently been scalded—in addition to the redness, vesicles had already formed, and there was noticeable oedema as well.  
  
I could see that she was trying, quite valiantly, to be brave in front of us—or more likely in front of Sherlock. Despite his amazingly strong nerves when encountering criminals or even corpses, and his propensity to fling himself over and off objects in pursuit of a clue, he absolutely panics when either our dear landlady or I are injured or ill. I do understand that due to his mercurial nature, he is often a victim of the whim of his spirits, and that she and I (and his brother) are anchors in a maelstrom of emotions and perceptions. Any of us showing any weakness can shake him to his very core. However, at that particular moment, I did not wish to have to offer succour to him whilst simultaneously attending to our injured friend.  
  
“Please explain,” I asked softly.  
  
“It was that pot,” she began. She gestured, and I spotted the offending object on the floor next to the table. It was a large, well-used, heavy thing, made of cast iron. “I had it on the stove all morning—I was making calves’ foot jelly. I just went to strain it—I’ve got my pans all ready for pouring—but the cloth I used when I picked it up was wet. I suppose the heat startled me, and I dropped the whole thing on my foot. I feel quite the fool.”  
  
“So, both the boiling broth and the cast-iron pot landed on your foot? And you were not… wearing anything that might protect it.” She blushed—but perhaps not as much as I—when I alluded to her habit of going barefoot in the kitchen. I could see her slippers—those that she usually wore in the house—under the table. “Not even stockings?”  
  
“It can get quite warm in here when I have something simmering for so long,” she pointed out, recovering from my reference to her impropriety.  
  
“It’s fine,” I whispered, and she gave me a small smile. I had long ago realised that that was her habit. Her long skirts regularly covered her to her toes, and of course when she comes up to our rooms she dons her slippers, but more than once I have noted a distinct lack of noise when she walked through the kitchen or her own rooms.  
  
At that moment, though, I was far more concerned with treating her injury.  
  
“I am so sorry, my dear lady,” I murmured, “but I must ascertain if you have broken any bones in your foot. This is going to be quite painful.” I saw no reason to prevaricate.  
  
She nodded and looked up at Sherlock, who was standing directly behind me, looming over my shoulder. “Perhaps the doctor would like his medical bag?” she hinted.  
  
“Oh! Yes. Of course. I shall fetch it at once.” He dashed out of the room.  
  
“Thank you,” I murmured. “He really cannot bear to see anyone for whom he cares to suffer in any way.”  
  
“He has been admirably solicitous and somewhat calm—somewhat—but I know how upsetting events of this sort are to him.”  
  
I—then and now, as I write this—marvel (and wonder) at her concern over his well-being, and I am more than touched by her solicitude for him. Our Sherlock is like the finest of china—admirable under heat, but unable to weather the slightest blow.  
  
And then I gently—as gently as I was able--began to prod the top of the burned, rapidly bruising and swelling foot. Our intrepid friend bit her lip and looked away, but she did not cry out or even wince. “It is a bit difficult to say for certain with the swelling, but I do not believe that any bones are broken,” I reported, and I am not certain which of us was more relieved.  
  
“So, just a bit of a burn and a nasty bruise?”  
  
“Well, a bit more than ‘a bit,’ I’m afraid,” I admitted. “You are going to have to be off your feet for quite a while until all this heals.”  
  
“Off my feet?”  
  
“Well, yes, of course. Walking is not only going to be painful but will likely increase the swelling—and the last thing your burned skin needs is to be stretched further. You must not just avoid walking on it, but keep it raised.”  
  
“Well, how am I to manage _that_?” she said a bit sharply. “I rarely have the opportunity to sit down, let alone put my feet up, until the supper washing up is done. You two create as much work as a household with ten children.”  
  
I felt deeply ashamed. I knew that my darling and I caused her quite a bit of work, but I had never heard her put it in such plain terms. “I am so very sorry,” I immediately apologised. “I know that we create nothing but chaos and disorder.”  
  
“And a great many messes to clean up,” she added. “Not to mention that neither of you can manage anything beyond tea and toast.”  
  
“Mr Holmes has delved into cookery—he has made a very nice almond cake,” I reminded her.  
  
She scowled at me. “Man shall not live by bread—or cake—alone. We will all starve well before the house collapses under the weight of the dust. What are we going to do?”  
  
“Cannot Mrs Turner give you some assistance?” I offered.  
  
“She has a houseful—her sister’s entire family is staying a fortnight—including the four boys.”  
  
“Oh, no. We certainly cannot impose on her,” I agreed.  
  
“Impose on whom?” Sherlock had caught my comment as he reappeared, my bag in hand.  
  
“Mrs Turner. Mrs Hudson must stay off her feet until she is healed, and we are considering who might assist in the running of the house.”  
  
“Oh.” Sherlock looked and sounded decidedly anxious. “Of course.”  
  
“Could we not simply advertise for a servant? Even if it is a temporary position, there are always many people desirous of employment. Sherlock, give me my bag.” I held my hands out and he obediently placed it in them. I looked up into his face. Yes, he was clearly distressed.  
  
“How am I supposed to pay for that?” Mrs Hudson replied a bit testily. Obviously, the severity of her predicament was sinking in.  
  
“We would pay their wages, of course,” I explained quickly. Sherlock nodded in mute agreement. “We shall place an advertisement in the newspapers this very afternoon.”  
  
Our landlady considered this as I began to care for her injured foot.  
  
Sherlock hovered about rather uselessly, whilst I carefully began to attend to our landlady’s injury. At that point, she rather firmly instructed him to wipe up all the spilled (and now rather firmed up) broth from the floor, and we both breathed a sigh of relief as this task distracted him for several minutes.  
  
[Sherlock’s distinct handwriting appears along the side of this paragraph; he has scrawled a collection of letters and numbers connected with lines—presumably a chemical formula—but it is in a very light pencil and difficult to discern.]  
  
Finally, I had carefully bandaged the wounded limb and delicately dropped the edge of the long skirt over it.  
  
“Sherlock,” I called—he was in the scullery by then— “will you come assist me?”  
  
“Yes, John?” He appeared instantly, wiping his hands on a rough cloth.  
  
“I believe that Mrs Hudson will be more comfortable in her bedroom.”  
  
Ethereal features; whip-thin limbs—and an iron constitution. I do not exaggerate in my published stories when I describe the discrepancy between Sherlock’s appearance and his surprising strength. Without another word he nodded and swept her up in his arms, she making a few dignified squawks of protest. I walked very closely behind them, ready to catch them if he faltered, but he easily transported her up the steep kitchen steps.  
  
“Oh, the sitting room, please,” she begged as he gained the landing.  
  
“I believe that you will find some things a bit more _convenient_ in your bedroom,” I pointed out as politely as I was able.  
  
“Oh, yes. Thank you, Doctor.” She realised instantly my point.  
  
My darling placed her on her bed as easily as if she were a doll.  
  
“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, arranging her skirt around her. “Now,” she instructed, “go fetch pencil and paper from my sitting room. We must compose an advertisement.”  
  
“Do you think it would be more efficacious to go through an agency?” I asked, listening to him rummaging about in the next room.  
  
She shook her head quite vehemently. “You know how those agencies work. I do not object to paying a fee for their services, but those poor girls should not have to pay one, too. How are they supposed to pay a fee when they are seeking wages?”  
  
I nodded in understanding. The subject brought to mind the excellent Violet Hunter and one of our earliest cases together, at that dismal house five miles outside of Winchester. She had been put into that not just grotesque but ultimately quite dangerous situation specifically because she had been working with the Westaway’s agency.  
  
I did not allow my thoughts to stray far, however, and praised Sherlock, who had just reappeared with a newspaper with him as well as paper and pencil, so that we might peruse the advertisements already published as a model for our own.  
  
*  
  
WANTED— Temporary MAID OF ALL WORK, for two gentlemen and housekeeper. Live out. No laundry. Good personal reference. Apply 221B, Baker Street, after twelve.   
  
[The good doctor has cut the ad out of the newspaper and neatly glued it at this point in his narrative.]  
  
There were a few false starts on one page, and then the final result was carefully copied, sans crossed-out words, on a fresh sheet in Sherlock’s tidiest writing. I admit that I counted the words; there were, of course, exactly twenty-four. Mrs Hudson would not, even if we were paying for the advertisement, tolerate the 1d cost for every extra word over the standard 24.  
  
“You would make an excellent secretary,” I remarked as I read over the neatly-composed advertisement. He gave me a complicated look—half pleased and half annoyed. “Now, run this to the newsagent, and you must bring home something for us to eat.”  
  
His eyes opened wide. It was something we seldom did. When we were out, we were, of course, accustomed to dining in inns and hotels, but when at home, Mrs Hudson spoilt us thoroughly by making everything she served us herself. When she left us to spend a few days with her sister, we would go out for our meals. The last time we had brought prepared food in had been a year prior, as close as I can calculate, when, after some rather surprisingly colourful words from Mrs Hudson—directed towards a smoking and ill-behaving stove—she had set out to purchase something for lunch and employ someone to repair the monstrous thing.  
  
“Oh, there’s some cold tongue and bread and cheese—” she began, and then she caught my eye, and instantly understood. “but the shop on the corner does some very nice meat pasties, and there’s always someone happy to sell you something tasty,” she ended.  
  
My darling headed out, looking more apprehensive at the thought of purchasing pigs’ trotters than he ever had when contemplating the end of a gun barrel pointed at his head. We remained still until we heard the street door open and shut, and then gave into laughter. He could be so very ridiculous at times.  
  
[ _I am not ridiculous; I was merely concerned that I might not select something palatable_ —Sherlock has noted.]  
  
*  
  
“There is no guarantee that we will receive the most appropriate applicant immediately,” Mrs Hudson mused, having obviously enjoyed her fish and chips and gherkins (and praising Sherlock lavishly for his success at bringing home a surprisingly acceptable meal). “I have been considering how to manage.”  
  
“Is there someone we can summon to assist in our predicament?” I wondered.  
  
She paused, a thoughtful expression on her face. And then she smiled a bit victoriously. “Felicity Thatcher! She would probably be able to at least bring some meals from their shop,” she offered, “and perhaps she would be able to do a few things in the house.”  
  
“Do you think she would be willing?” I wondered.  
  
“You saved her little Lucy’s life last year, Doctor. She would probably be delighted to be able to do something for you.”  
  
I do not wish to recall that particular event in my medical career—even if the result had been positive. I had amputated men’s limbs when I was in Afghanistan. I had seen horrors and brutalities there that I have, to this day, been unable to put into words. I have seen the disgusting decay of flesh and bone brought on by syphilis and by “phossy jaw.” I have nursed my own sweetheart through several illnesses that had him, quite literally, at Death’s door.  
  
Why saving a nine-year-old girl from suffocation in the throes of diphtheria still, a year later, haunts my dreams, I have no idea.  
  
It was not the first time I had tended to the Thatcher family. There had been other injuries and illnesses, including the passing of elderly Mr Thatcher. I had been under a misapprehension early in our acquaintance that he was her father, but I learned after I treated him for a bad chest that he was actually her father-in-law. Miss Thatcher was really Mrs Thatcher, and I finally did meet her husband, who worked at the brewery and so was usually out hours before I rose.  
  
He had not gone to work the day I treated little Lucy, who had wispy thin curls of a sandy colour like his, and it was clear from his demeanour that he was dedicated to his small family and distraught at the idea that he might lose his daughter. They had lost a son, several years prior, before his first birthday, but the pain was still fresh.  
  
Have I written about this at another time? I do not recall, and I find myself digressing from my original subject. I will continue my narrative as intended.  
  
[Sherlock has added: _I am concerned that this still haunts you but am uncertain as to how I might alleviate some of your apprehension regarding the event._ ]  
  
*  
  
“Oh, poor Mrs Hudson!”  
  
The gracious, hardworking lady—the mother of the young girl I had attended to—was quite shocked and upset to hear of our mutual friend’s misfortune.   
  
“So, you see, Mrs Hudson must remain off her feet for several days—I hope to give her at least ten if not a fortnight. We are advertising for a temporary maid-of-all-work, but until we engage one, we were wondering if you would be able to bring us some meals and perhaps tend to some of the most necessary household tasks.”  
  
“Oh… yes. Yes, I could help a bit. It would have to be at the slow hours for the shop, when the boy (she tipped her head toward the young man, swathed in a waist-to-floor apron, who was sweeping the floor in a thoughtful manner) can manage on his own.”  
  
“That would be most gracious of you—and we will remunerate you for your assistance, of course. Now,” I continued before she could utter an objection, “I am woefully unaware of what exact tasks are required. Mrs Hudson will have to instruct you.”  
  
“I shall come by and speak to her as soon as I can get away from the shop.”  
  
“Thank you so very much, Mrs Thatcher, for your assistance.”  
  
*  
  
As promised, Mrs Thatcher rang our bell at approximately three o’clock. I was sitting with Mrs Hudson, taking down the rather daunting list of tasks she considered “most crucial” to keeping the house in some sort of order until she was recuperated. I admit to being both mystified and humbled by the bewildering myriad of things that had to be cleaned, organised, fetched, ordered, and prepared.  
  
“And you have been accomplishing all of this by yourself for how many years? Mrs Hudson, you are a positive saint.”  
  
“Oh, Doctor Watson, that’s nothing.”  
  
“Nothing? No…”  
  
“I mean, sir, that neither you nor I are going to breathe one word of all of the _special_ attentions Himself requires. Those, I am afraid, will be entirely your responsibility.”  
  
“Oh, yes! Of course,” I replied in haste. No, it would be quite untoward for a stranger to learn of the more unusual ways in which we tend to my darling. It would likewise be imperative that she would be prevented from any shocks. “He will have to behave himself,” I realised. “I will speak to him quite firmly about it.”  
  
“Do not be too harsh with him. He has been quite upset about all this fuss.”  
  
I nodded in agreement.  
  
*  
  
My poor Sherlock was taking the entire situation quite badly.   
  
“My darling, you must calm down. You have been quite overcome all day.” I stroked his cheek. “I realise that this has been quite an unsettling turn of events, but your reaction seems so strong.”  
  
He hung his head so low I could not see his beautiful features.  
  
“We will address why this is so distressing presently, but for now, you must accept that yes, Mrs Hudson has had quite a turn, but she will—with care and rest—heal. Our neighbour and then a new servant will assist us with meals and some of the more basic necessities, but we must not expect her to do everything that our friend does for us. You do understand what I mean?”  
  
He considered this for a moment before shaking his head.  
  
“I mean, my love, that you will _behave_ yourself. You will rise and retire at decent hours. You will dress yourself—completely—every morning. You will eat a reasonable amount at every meal. You will not perform any experiments that will stain anything or suffocate us.”  
  
He raised his head and stared at me quite ruefully.  
  
“You will tend to your own bedroom—no leaving soiled clothing in odd corners or a mess when you shave.”  
  
He opened his mouth, probably to protest, then shut it again.  
  
“You will put away your clean clothing when the laundress brings it.”  
  
He sighed.  
  
“I also believe that you will be perfectly capable of bringing up the coal and laying the fires—for us _and_ for Mrs Hudson.”  
  
His brows drew down and his frown made me laugh.  
  
“Oh, poor you,” I teasingly grumbled back. “We have both been horribly spoilt and it is time that we took on some responsibilities here.”  
  
“What will you be doing?” he demanded.  
  
“Do you know how many times a day Mrs Hudson responds to the bell? Deliveries, post, your clients—”  
  
“So, you intend to be a page boy?”   
  
Clearly this idea tickled him, and he said it so comically—with a theatrical wrinkle of his nose—that I had to laugh. “I shall enjoy blowing the whistle, but I expect a coin for my efforts,” I responded, relieved that his spirits seemed to be lifting.  
  
“I shall be happy to reward you for your efforts, but perhaps not with a coin.”  
  
I kissed his forehead before descending the stairs. “Cheeky boy,” I whispered.  
  
[ _I was not distressed,_ Sherlock has insisted, _and I did not need to be chided like a schoolboy._ ]  
  
*  
  
“Thank you for arranging everything, Doctor,” Mrs Hudson said softly. I had found her sitting on her bed, her back against the headboard, with her foot raised by cushions. She was reading a magazine, which she laid aside when I tapped on the door before entering. She also had, next to her on the clean coverlet, two additional magazines, two novels, stationery, and a pencil. I looked down at these items in surprise.  
  
“He did not want me to grow bored,” she explained in some amusement.  
  
[ _You see? I can be quite thoughtful and of great use despite the distressing situation._ ]  
  
And then she winced.  
  
“Let me examine you,” I responded instantly. She nodded, and I gingerly pressed on her foot, over the bandages. “The swelling has increased,” I reported grimly. “Has the pain, as well?”  
  
She suddenly could not look at me, glancing down at her work-worn hands instead.  
  
“I presume that that means ‘yes’,” I commented. “Shall I give you something to ease it a bit?”  
  
“No, that is not necessary,” she protested.  
  
“My dear friend,” I replied gently, “you know yourself that in order to heal as rapidly as possible, you must rest, and you cannot rest easily if you are in such great pain.”  
  
“Are you going to insist?” she teased weakly.  
  
“Absolutely,” I assured her, assuming my best “gruff doctor voice,” which made her smile.  
  
*  
  
Mrs Hudson chose the third applicant. As my duties now included responding to the bell, I had had the opportunity to meet each of them, and of course joined our landlady in her interview with each. She had had Sherlock move her to her tidy sitting room for the interviews. She had been distressed but also saw the need to be on the settee, where she could decorously keep her foot raised. I believe that she made quite an impressive figure like this—something like Cleopatra, perhaps—and she laughed herself quite giddy when I suggested this.  
  
As she was with everything pertaining to the running of the house, she was direct and firm with each applicant. The first had been terrified by this, for some reason—and I really do not understand this because I can discern the difference between firm and stern—and of course would not have lasted five minutes under our roof.  
  
The second was untidy about her shoes and hat and gloves and, well, everything. Despite my attachment to my darling, I am still an admirer of the fairer sex and I was decidedly unimpressed. Mrs Hudson concurred and off she went.  
  
So, number three it was, and I put a notice on our front door stating that the position had been filled. I was getting a bit tired of running down the stairs at the sound of the bell.  
  
*  
  
It was the next day, and I had been called out for my medical service immediately following breakfast, served by our new servant (and, I admit, consumed with something less than enthusiasm by both of us). I had returned in the early afternoon, hungry and wondering if lunch would be better than breakfast had been. I heard movement in the kitchen and rather than ascending to our rooms, I walked down to see how (if) she was managing. The sight that greeted me was not at all what I expected.  
  
“What in heaven’s name are you doing?” I exclaimed rather energetically.  
  
“What does it look like I am doing?” Mrs Hudson replied drily.  
  
“It looks like you are kneading dough, which means that you are standing, which is in direct defiance of my orders to stay off your foot.”  
  
“I am kneading dough,” she agreed, “but I am not going against your orders.” She tipped her head down, and I followed her gaze to observe that she was resting her knee upon the chair that stood next to her at the table.  
  
“You know what I meant,” I sighed. “Why are you cooking? Where is the maid?”  
  
“She has been dismissed.”  
  
“Why?” I was extremely displeased to hear this.  
  
“She did not understand the Queen’s English,” she replied tersely.  
  
“Meaning?” I was growing quite tired of the conversation.  
  
“She did not seem to understand the meaning of the word ‘clean’,” she sniffed. “My instructions were clear, but she chose to interpret them in a manner I found unsatisfactory.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“She did not seem to understand the necessity of scrubbing the fenders every day. She left the breakfast remains in the scullery sink, and now the entire room is foul. I told her a _clean_ pot for the soup—and there it is—well, you can see for yourself.”  
  
I moved toward the stove. There was, indeed, a pot of some sort of white soup on it. I peered closely at it and frowned. “What are those dark bits?” I asked.  
  
“Ashes,” she replied grimly.  
  
“Very well, then,” I acquiesced. “Shall we place the same advertisement?”  
  
*  
  
Four days later, as I rounded the corner and approached our house, I was puzzled to observe the new maid-of-all-work making a hasty departure. As she was headed in my direction, I managed to impede her flight.  
  
“Helen, whatever has happened?” I asked. I was distressed to note that she was red-faced and wet-cheeked, and her hat was on rather askew.  
  
“That man—that horrid, disgusting, _evil_ man—how can you consider yourself a decent person when you live with such a creature?” She tugged a handkerchief from where it was tucked into her cuff and dabbed at her eyes.  
  
“That is a rather strong statement,” I managed. “Mr Holmes is quite eccentric, but he is most certainly not evil.”  
  
She shook her head vigorously. “It is no use, Doctor Watson. I know what I saw with my own eyes, and that vile sight will undoubtedly haunt my dreams for ages. I will take my leave of you now.” And she swept past me and hurried around the corner that I had just come from. I sighed and took the few steps I needed to reach our door.  
  
“Mrs Hudson?” I shouted as soon as I entered the hall.  
  
“In here,” she called back. I found her in her sitting room, a grim expression on her face. “I take it you encountered Helen on her way out,” she began without preamble.  
  
“I did,” I admitted, “and her words have somewhat alarmed me. What precisely did he do?” I did not consider for a moment that Sherlock had actually _not_ done something to horrify the young woman.  
  
“Go up to your rooms—he can tell you himself.”  
  
I trudged up the seventeen steps with a sense of foreboding. As I entered our sitting room, I nearly tripped over the coal scuttle. Sherlock was seated on the rug before the fire, his arms wrapped around his knees and his unlit pipe in his mouth. “Hullo, John,” he mumbled dejectedly, not bothering to turn to look at me. “Mrs Hudson is cross with me.”  
  
“What did you do?” I demanded. I saw no reason to prevaricate.  
  
“I forgot.”  
  
“What did you forget?” I removed my hat and coat and, after hanging them up, moved across the room. I crouched down and put my hand on his shoulder. I had been prepared to be angry with him, but something in the tone of his voice made me hesitate. I wanted to hear his side of the story.  
  
“I have been trying so very hard,” he managed, his voice low. He was clearly chagrined about whatever had occurred.  
  
“What have you been trying, my love?” I asked gently.  
  
“To do as you and Mrs Hudson wished. To behave myself whilst the new maid was here.”  
  
My heart sank. “Oh, Sherlock, what did you _do_?”  
  
“You will shout at me. Mrs Hudson shouted at me from downstairs. She said I was to remain in our rooms until you returned.”  
  
“Perhaps I will not shout, my darling, but until you tell me what occurred neither of us will know. Come sit up here with me.” As I so often did, I arranged him on my lap. “Now, will you tell me what happened? What did you forget?”  
  
It took a while, and sometimes I wanted to laugh and sometimes I wanted to shout and sometimes I wanted to comfort him—he felt so dreadfully guilty and was clearly contrite. What he finally came out with was this: Helen (he could not remember her name, for which I did reproach him) had apparently come into our sitting room with the coal scuttle and various implements to rake out and re-lay our fire. She had not knocked—that was not his fault. It was also not his fault that at that very moment, he was reaching over the back of the settee to retrieve a cushion he had dislodged.  
  
What was his fault was what he was wearing—or more precisely, what he was _not_ wearing.  
  
“ _Just_ a shirt?” I gasped. I considered how he was dressed now. His shirt was not tucked in. No braces. Barefoot. I reached under his shirt. His trousers were not fastened. I slipped my hand inside them. No drawers. My heart sank. “Oh, my love,” I sighed, “you mean that you were _literally_ wearing just your shirt?”  
  
He nodded.  
  
“And leaning over the settee?”  
  
And then the image of exactly what had greeted the maid leapt out at me and I could not contain myself—I burst into laughter.  
  
“John?” he quavered, confused and distressed by my reaction.  
  
“Oh, my love, I am sorry, but I do understand precisely why she reacted the way she did. That was probably one of the most unseemly displays she is _ever_ likely to encounter. I dare say I would be a bit taken aback myself if I had walked in on—well…”  
  
He was not mollified by my mirth. “I _know_ you told me that I had to ensure that I was decently garbed when the maid was here.”  
  
“Then why did it happen?”  
  
“I told you—I forgot. I was reading in bed when I recalled a piece in the newspaper I wished to re-examine, and I went out to find it. I did find it, but then I began reading it and I forgot.”  
  
“You got distracted by what you were reading and forgot that the maid would be up to tend to the fire? And that you were wearing just a shirt?”  
  
He nodded miserably, and I rubbed his back, considering our situation. I finally came to a conclusion. “Well, my love, what do you think we should do about this predicament?” I inquired. I quite purposely said “we” to let him know that I was not terribly angry with him and that I was not going to abandon him.  
  
“Mm… apologise to Mrs Hudson?”  
  
“Yes. Excellent.” I reached up and rubbed the back of his neck; if anything was going to cause one of his horrible headaches, it was a situation such as the one in which we found ourselves, and I wanted to—if I possibly could—prevent it. “Then…?”  
  
“Place an advertisement for another maid?”  
  
“Yes. Go on.”  
  
“Take up the maid’s responsibilities until we get a new one?”  
  
“Under Mrs Hudson’s supervision, and no cooking, but yes. And finally?”  
  
“Try harder not to forget the rules?”  
  
“Highest marks.” I twisted my head around and kissed his cheek. “Now, my darling, what do you think would be a clever thing to do before descending to apologise to our more-than-patient landlady?”  
  
He considered this for a moment and I slid my hand under his shirt again. “Oh! Dress myself properly!”  
  
“Precisely. Up.” I rose, sliding him off my lap and to his feet. He obediently began to head towards his bedroom. I grabbed his hand and spun him so that he was facing me. “You realise that we will not have a new maid for a few days?” I whispered, placing my face close to his.  
  
“Yes, John.”  
  
“Then, I propose that this evening, we take advantage of the fact that there will be no maid and that Mrs Hudson cannot ascend the stairs—because I should very much like to see exactly what poor Helen was exposed to this morning.”  
  
“Oh, John… really?” he sighed.  
  
“Really,” I assured him, and I sealed my promise with a kiss.  
  
[ _You kissed me a great deal that evening and in very lovely ways_ Sherlock has helpfully noted.]  
  
*  
  
We were fortunate in that it was only a few days later that we hired Belinda. She was tall and healthily built, with brown hair and blue eyes. Her accent, according to Sherlock, indicated that she had lived as a child in Yorkshire, but she had gradually refined her way of speaking and did not sound out of place in the metropolis. She was dressed modestly and neatly, and she gave every impression of being capable of hard work whilst also attending to the smaller niceties we might require. Her references were impeccable. She and Mrs Hudson got along immediately, and in fact she started her labours for us that very afternoon. I hung the “position filled” card on the front door with great satisfaction.  
  
*  
  
Sherlock, who had been out during our interviews, returned exactly in time for the very nice tea Belinda had prepared. She had not had time to make her own bread or cake, of course, but she had done some sort of cheese scones and a mustard spread for them that were just delightful. On her suggestion, we joined Mrs Hudson in her sitting room for our refreshment, and we agreed that she was a welcome addition to our household.  
  
Mrs Hudson put extra sugar in his tea to make up for the lack of cake. He does love his sweets.  
  
*  
  
The following few days were rather blissfully peaceful. Belinda arrived each morning to make breakfast, and then did the cleaning and whatever else it was that Mrs Hudson had been doing to make our home so pleasant. Our landlady handled all the ordering and accounts, as she always had, and, as she was limited to those activities she could perform whilst seated, she caught up on a great deal of mending and even began a new set of antimacassars for our own settee.  
  
Sherlock was true to his word and behaved himself fairly well. I had lifted my ban, and he was now allowed to resume his experiments—within reason, and he was to warn us if something was likely to create any alarming noises or odours. He was being quite good about keeping to regular hours and decently garbing himself. I pointed out that, because Belinda left after the supper washing up, he would not be able to ring for food or even tea on a whim, so he had better eat when meals were offered. Surprisingly, he complied with this rule as well.  
  
I suppose some of it was simply serendipity—he had not suffered any bouts of mania or melancholia for some months, and between his researches and a few interesting clients, he was as content as he was ever likely to be.  
  
*  
  
“Doctor Watson?” Belinda knocked gently on our sitting room door before entering. I had rung for her, but she was always cautious about knocking—she had been given more than sufficient warning about the possibly dire circumstances otherwise.  
  
“Belinda, I am so sorry, but Mr Holmes has had a small argument with the fireplace.” I indicated the mess he had left. That the mess was more from his efforts to clean up than from the original situation was the only thing keeping me from shouting at him. I had banished him to his bedroom, however.  
  
“Oh, my,” she commented, turning to fetch the cleaning implements she would need.  
  
“I am sorry about all the work,” I repeated. I had been watching her in some fascination as she efficiently tackled the ashes that had been rubbed into the hearthrug. “I am not even certain what he was doing in the first place.”  
  
“He was seeing how far the ashes flew as he raked a burning piece of paper from the fire,” she replied calmly, and it was my turn to be a bit taken aback.  
  
“How do you know that?” I realised the connection between the crime scene we had been examining and his decidedly untidy pursuits.  
  
“He explained it to me earlier today.”  
  
“So, you knew he was doing something… untidy.”  
  
“Yes, sir. I even assisted. That was very exciting.”  
  
“Assisted?”  
  
“Something about the length of my arms, sir.”  
  
Now, as I watched her apply some sort of mysterious fluid to a rag and rub it briskly on the carpet, I shook my head in amusement. Only in our household.  
  
*  
  
I was out when the trouble arose, and so found out about the whole incident second-hand. I had just returned home from a trip to the tobacconists and was hanging my hat when Mrs Hudson called out to me. I found her in her bedroom, her foot on a cushion.  
  
“Are you all right, Mrs Hudson?” I asked in concern. Her face was pinched and downcast. “Are you in pain?”  
  
“No, sir, but we’ve had a bit of an upset with Belinda.”  
  
“What has he done now?” I groaned.  
  
“Oh, Doctor, for once, it was not his fault. I am afraid it was something that _I_ did,” she admitted.  
  
Astonished, I sat on the foot of the bed. “ _You_ did? Whatever can you mean?” I wondered.  
  
“I have discovered something about her that took me somewhat by surprise, and I am afraid that my reaction was… well, I could have responded a bit more calmly.”  
  
“Whatever can you mean?” I demanded.  
  
And so, she proceeded to explain.  
  
*  
  
“Being immobilized as I have been,” she began, indicating with a sweep of her hand both her injured foot and the bed, “and with Belinda doing so much of the work, I have had some time on my hands, and I have been using it to catch up on some reading and the like.” She paused and sighed. “And one of the books I chose to delve into was _Mrs Beeton’s Book of Cookery and Household Management_.” I nodded, quite familiar with the book—so familiar, in fact, that it had become a bit of a joke between us. Whenever faced with circumstances—mainly of Sherlock’s making—that were quite beyond what one would consider reasonable or even decent for a respectable household, she would sigh and shake her head, wondering “What would Mrs Beeton say?”  
  
“So, what did Mrs Beeton have to say?” I asked a bit cheekily.  
  
She was not amused, however, and frowned at me. “Well, over time, I have marked several recipes that I wished to try, and it occurred to me that this would be an opportune time. Belinda is quite handy in the kitchen, as you have noticed, and I did not think that any of them were beyond her capabilities.”  
  
That was a rather ominous statement.  
  
“She has seemed quite capable,” I commented.  
  
“And she is. Without a doubt. The salmon she made the other day was delightful. I noticed that Himself quite enjoyed it, in particular.”  
  
I nodded again; she was correct, and I had been so gratified to see him consume the nourishing and delicious dish with such relish.  
  
“I thought she would be… enthusiastic about trying something new. She seems so keen to learn in general.”  
  
“I have observed that characteristic,” I agreed. “She has even been willing to assist Mr Holmes in his research.”  
  
“Precisely. So, I marked a few of the recipes of interest and rang the bell. I find that very odd,” she remarked thoughtfully. “I have never in my life had someone for whom to ring, and now I find myself quite dependent upon her for the some of the smallest of things.” I believe she would have blushed decorously if she had been capable of managing that upon command, but our indominable friend is far too pragmatic about the more—well—the realities of life to be so ridiculously modest. How many times has she—a woman who was married and a mother—dealt with the more private functions of life? How many times has she changed the sheets on Sherlock’s bed, bearing evidence of either violence or  
  
[There is a break in the doctor’s manuscript; sometimes even in his private papers he is reticent about describing the more intimate activities in which they engaged.]  
  
But obviously she is acquainted with every aspect of life, and Belinda’s assistance when she needed to move to her water closet was clearly appreciated.  
  
“She came up and I explained my idea. She was… polite, of course, but it seemed as if something in her… oh, my dear Doctor Watson, she just seemed suddenly so very downcast.”  
  
I frowned. This was, as she said, unexpected, but I still could not discern the nature of her indiscretion. “This does not seem quite a disaster,” I remarked in puzzlement.  
  
“No… that was not it.” She stopped speaking, looking so distressed that I wished to embrace her as I so often did my darling when he was unhappy.  
  
“So…” I prodded.  
  
“So, even though I saw that she was not exactly enthusiastic about my plan, I attempted to give her the book.”  
  
“Attempted?”  
  
“Yes. I showed her that I had marked several pages, and I said that she could try any of the dishes she wished. And that was when she… she stepped back, away from me, and her face grew very flushed. I asked her what was upsetting her, but she could not even raise her eyes to look at me, let alone tell me. I realised, of course, that this was not simply a servant shirking her duty. But, like a dullard, I did not comprehend the reason for her distress. I thought that perhaps she was not as confident in her own abilities as I was. ‘None of the dishes seem overly complicated,’ I told her. ‘You may order what you will need. None of it is too dear.’” She stopped, pressing her lips together.  
  
“Clearly that did not soothe her,” I murmured.  
  
She shook her head. “Clearly not. I admit that I was confounded. I decided to be direct.”  
  
“You are quite the expert at that,” I commented, and she frowned at me without malice.  
  
“So, I asked her directly, ‘What is upsetting you?’ And can you believe… well, I most certainly did not anticipate her reply—not in the slightest.”  
  
“What was it?” I cried a bit impatiently. I was beginning to imagine all sorts of horrid things—that she was ill, or in trouble, or perhaps even a criminal.  
  
“Belinda cannot read.”  
  
Well. That _was_ unexpected, but in retrospect, I should have deduced it. I could hear Sherlock berating both of us for not attending to the details—noticing that Belinda had become upset only upon Mrs Hudson offering her the book. Casting our memories back to consider if we had ever witnessed her reading anything. Well, he was not there, and Mrs Hudson and I were, and we were equally taken aback by this discovery.  
  
“She told you that?”  
  
“She did. Brave girl—she looked me in the eye then, and her voice quivered only the slightest bit as she explained that, other than a few words, she cannot read nor write. She has been managing the orders for the greengrocer and the butcher—but even that, she admitted, she rather cheated at. She has an excellent memory, and I realise now that whenever I made a list, I would read it out to her before giving it to her. She would simply hand the list over to the boy, and when the deliveries came, she recalled precisely what I had requested and was able to check that everything was correct in that way. Really rather clever of her,” she mused.  
  
“How could we have missed this? We both interviewed her.”  
  
“I should have been more diligent in my questioning,” she admitted, “but it is growing more and more uncommon—or so I thought. It simply did not occur to me. I feel quite horrid about the way I found out—me thrusting that wretched book under her nose. I do wish she had told me.”  
  
“She is embarrassed about the fact,” I suggested.  
  
“Clearly, yes—but there is no need for her to be. There are still so many children who, through no fault of their own, do not receive even the most basic of lessons.”  
  
“And I am certain that you expressed your understanding.”  
  
“Yes, of course I did,” she said a bit sharply, and I winced at my statement—it must have sounded rather condescending. “And I assured her that she is not going to be dismissed.”  
  
“Where is she now?” I asked.  
  
“I sent her after some sausage and things, and I made it clear that she was, absolutely, to return to us. I told her that she did not need to hurry, however—she needs some time to collect herself.”  
  
I admire our dear friend so. She is so observant and respectful of the feelings of others. She truly understands and cares for us—Sherlock in particular—and never questions his queer states.  
  
“She was so grateful, and promised that she would return, but the walk will do her some good, and it has given me some time to consider all that has transpired.”  
  
“I am relieved that she will be staying. She is nearly as good a cook as you are, Mrs Hudson,” I told her honestly.  
  
“She is,” our landlady agreed, “and that is where I intend to begin.”  
  
“Begin?” I wondered, suspecting that I already knew what the dear lady had in mind. “You are going to teach her to read.”  
  
“You are very clever, Doctor. Yes. I thought that I could show her the recipes whilst I read them to her, and I will write the orders as she observes, and I will spell out the words for her.”  
  
“Mrs Hudson, you are an angel here amongst the heathens,” I professed—and I meant it. What had Sherlock and I done that was so good that we had earned the care and attention of such a lovely lady? I rose from the bed where I had been seated during our conversation, and then I could not resist. Protocol be damned. I bent and kissed our landlady gently on the cheek.  
  
*  
  
She was not completely illiterate, we had discovered. Well, Mrs Hudson had discovered. She knew her letters and could read some basic words; she could sign her name—something she apparently had learned by rote.  
  
“She went into service when she was ten years old,” our landlady related a few days later as I examined her slowly-healing foot. “Can you imagine?”  
  
No, I honestly could say, I could not imagine that. My own upbringing, austere as it was, was still under the same roof as my mother, father, and brother. I knew of households which employed such young children for the coarsest and most base tasks, of course, but when in those large houses, it was rare to encounter these creatures unless Sherlock was interviewing them about a crime. Otherwise, they remained below the stairs.  
  
“Did she not attend school before then?”  
  
“Apparently only when she was quite small. Then she had to stay home to take care of her younger brothers and sisters.”  
  
“What about the compulsory laws?” Was she of an age that the law passed in 1882 would have affected her? Or at least the earlier legal acts? I was not certain.  
  
Mrs Hudson shook her head at my apparent naivete. “There are more ways around those than people to enforce them.”  
  
She continued relating our maid’s history as I re-wrapped her foot. “First she was in the scullery of a country house…”  
  
*  
  
“The cook was always shouting orders. Not in a cruel way—it was just that he was rather deaf. He was actually quite a nice man who enjoyed teaching others cookery. I learned all the basics from him and he even had me do some of the food preparation.”  
  
As Belinda shared more of her story with me, I pictured her as a young girl determinedly scraping and chopping carrots, being careful not to chop a finger instead.  
  
“It was the cook—Mr Woodward—who read the advertisement for an upstairs maid in a very large house here in London and suggested I apply. I got a reference and there I was. It was very different. It was rather horrid, to be honest.”  
  
Mrs Hudson’s relating of the beginnings of the life of our new friend had piqued my interest, and now I encouraged her to share her experiences with me as she swept and wiped and beat cushions.  
  
*  
  
“Then I heard about a position as a lady’s maid, and there I was working for Mrs Simpson. She was so lovely and kind, and I tended to her for three years. Then, sadly, she passed, and her son, who is equally kind, read your advertisement and here I am.”  
  
“You had remained in the house after her passing?” I wondered.  
  
“Yes. I made myself useful, of course—there is always work to do in such a household, and the other servants were perfectly happy with the extra hand. It was a pleasant place, really. Mr Simpson was quite easy to work for. Very tidy. Did not entertain much. Worked in The City most days. But he married recently, and the new Mrs Simpson had her own maid, so Mr Simpson assisted me in finding a new position.”  
  
“He was aware that it is temporary one, was he not?” I was a bit concerned; we had not made plans for a permanent placement.  
  
“It is sufficient for the moment. I am, of course, continuing to look about me. But do not be concerned—I shall not leave here until Mrs Hudson is quite healed.”  
  
I was relieved at this. The turmoil of the search for a reliable maid had been excruciating and none of us were keen to have to begin again.  
  
“Thank you, Belinda,” I told her, sincerely.  
  
*  
  
“Mrs Simpson used to read me your stories, Doctor Watson—about Mr Holmes and his detective work. So very exciting!”  
  
“So, she knew that you did not… that you had not got far in school?”  
  
“Yes, but she said it didn’t matter to her. She thought I was very good at my work, and she particularly liked my hems and my egg wine.”  
  
“Egg wine?” I had no idea of what she spoke. “Did the household not employ a cook?”  
  
“Oh, yes, of course, but a proper lady’s maid must be capable of tending to her mistress’s needs, and at the end, in particular, when she was quite frail, I was often called upon to make something nourishing at odd hours. I was fortunate to have experience in the kitchen from my prior work… goodness, Doctor Watson. I am going on and on about myself when I should be working.”  
  
“You _are_ working,” I interrupted, pointing to her feather duster, which she had, simultaneously with her talk, been rigorously employing among the myriad objects collected on our sitting-room mantle. She has an amazing felicity for cleaning things without disturbing them. Not that the efforts of our dear friend are any less, but she prefers to shift things about a bit whilst cleaning. She says that it is to check that nothing has got stuck onto the mantle.  
  
Probably a wise precaution.  
  
[ _It was just the once_ Sherlock has protested]  
  
*  
  
“It feels as good as new, and I am so eager to be out of bed,” Mrs Hudson begged. I examined her foot carefully, and I had to agree. The swelling was nearly gone; the damaged skin was healed. There were a few marks, of course, but no danger of damaging anything by her being up and about. “I am certain that I can get a shoe on,” she continued, eagerly.  
  
“Certain? And how do you know that?” I teased. It was perfectly obvious that she had already been up and about for the past few days, when I was not at home. It does not take a consulting detective to notice that her boots were pushed under the settee in her sitting room with fresh mud on them.  
  
“I am simply not meant to be an invalid,” she admitted in mock despair. “Woe is me; I am committed to a life of activity.”  
  
Very solemnly, I gave her my doctor’s permission to rise and resume her activities.  
  
*  
  
“What will happen to… Belinda?” Sherlock’s query, delivered with no warning, brought me to an abrupt halt. I had been neglecting him of late, I had realised, and that evening I was attempting to rectify the situation. He was, when he asked his surprising question, quite bare, and I was rather enjoying the feel of his smooth skin under my fingers as I rubbed lavender oil into it.  
  
“What do you mean, my darling?” I asked, kissing his temple. I was proud of him to have remembered her name and resumed my ministrations.  
  
“Now that Mrs Hudson is back on her feet, there is no need for her services, or at least… I believe… John, that is quite distracting.” He smiled indolently at me.  
  
“It is meant to be, my love,” I told him sincerely, but I also paused again. “I had not thought about that—about Belinda,” I admitted.  
  
“Perhaps,” he offered shyly, “if she is in need of employment, and if Mrs Hudson is amenable, we could continue to have her here? We would continue to pay her wages,” he hastened to add. “Mrs Hudson should not have to resume the heaviest tasks in the house. She has been quite pleasant lately, despite her immobility.”  
  
“Has she?” I asked a bit duplicitously. I knew it to be a fact, and I knew that my darling had been spending time with our landlady—reading or talking or I know not what—but it was time that previously had not been available to her when she was so burdened with all the tasks required for tending to our rather odd household.  
  
As he so often did, Sherlock either did not discern or ignored my levity. “Oh, yes, John,” he reported solemnly. “I have had many quite pleasant conversations with her, and she read to me, and I to her, and I played for her several times, and she was not even cross about the smoke that evening.”  
  
He was referring to a rather unfortunate experiment of his involving fresh boughs of holly and ivy, testing their combustibility to corroborate or disprove the story of a rather unpleasant fellow accused of setting fire to his employer’s place of business during the Christmas season. (The unfortunate conclusion—for the accused—was that although the fire did not spread in the manner he originally expected, his setting fire to the decorations had, ultimately, caused the fire that destroyed the premises.)  
  
Sherlock had made himself quite ill with the smoke (I was out during the debacle and returned just in time to tend to him) (and apologise to Mrs Hudson and Belinda) and I was rather astounded that our landlady had not been stricter with him. Was this proof that at least some of her sometimes seemingly perpetual ire stemmed from simply being overworked?  
  
[The doctor has edited himself here; striking out the word “simply.”]  
  
“So, you wish for Belinda to remain?” I clarified, resuming my rubbing.  
  
“Yes… oh, John. That is so lovely.”  
  
The remainder of the evening consisted of a great deal of bare Sherlock under me and sheets that would need to be changed.  
  
[ _Those are my favourite sorts of evenings and I do love you for them_ the detective has written.]  
  
*  
  
“Well, there is no reason to say good-bye to Belinda,” Mrs Hudson smiled mysteriously.  
  
“Oh?” I felt rather guilty—despite our conversation pertaining to the situation, I had not broached the subject with our landlady the following morning. Granted, I was somewhat taken by surprise when she rather than Belinda had appeared with the breakfast tray. Her foot was clearly entirely healed, and she seemed delighted to be back to bringing it up herself. Sherlock was still in bed—I had slept quite well, but he had had a restless night despite our activities, and I was leaving him to stay in bed as long as he required.  
  
“Not entirely.”  
  
“Whatever do you mean?” I obediently prodded.  
  
“I have come to realise—through her most excellent service—that although I did miss terribly cooking for you and Himself, I found it quite a relief not to have to do the really heavy cleaning. I am not getting any younger—no, let me finish (for I nearly interrupted her with an objection to this statement), and my back and my knees could do without the worst of it. So, Belinda will come in three days a week and tend to those tasks here, and three days at Mrs Turner’s, and that will allow her to manage well enough.”  
  
“And on the seventh day?”  
  
“On the seventh day, as the Lord intended, she will rest, and she will practise her lessons.”  
  
*  
  
“Doctor Watson! You’re needed!”  
  
Belinda’s robust voice startled me. I had been deeply involved in type-writing our latest adventure and had only been dimly aware of the bell ringing. I pushed my chair back from my desk and rushed to the top of the steps.  
  
“Oh, what have you done to yourself now?” I exclaimed, hoping that the exasperation in my voice would disguise the concern. Sherlock was in the open doorway, propped up between two young boys, smiling sheepishly up at me.  
  
“A slight miscalculation,” he admitted.  
  
His miscalculation involved a poorly-thought-out leap from a bridge. His ankle was broken and until it healed he drove me, Mrs Hudson, and Belinda nearly mad.  
  



End file.
